


at the crossroads

by psychosomatic86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet, First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, a take on Episode 3 you know the scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19094812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosomatic86/pseuds/psychosomatic86
Summary: It’s the rarer more intimate glimpse Crowley is afforded into his friend’s turmoils, and it’s the one that hurts the most. Because he never does anything about it. Neither of them do, but especially not Crowley, and especially not now. Imagine the implications…





	at the crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> God I'm sure there's like, ten thousand of these fics already out there, but I'm soft and gay about them so hush... let me write my sappy bullshit ;-; (jk i hope you enjoy, we're all just emotional bitches here)

He’s using that smile as he talks, the one that either soothes, all rich and sweet and selfless, through his tone, or blooms from the corners of his eyes, filling them up with crows feet, but never both. Never the eyes with the words, or the other way round, as if his mouth is forever warring against the inconsistencies of his own ruse and only one can claim victory. Both would be a catastrophe. Imagine the implications?

 

It’s the rarer more intimate glimpse Crowley is afforded into his friend’s turmoils, and it’s the one that hurts the most. Because he never does anything about it. Neither of them do, but especially not Crowley, and especially not now. Imagine the implications…

 

Presently, Aziraphale is talking of fine dining as if reminiscing, as though the future jaunts he’s hoping for have already played out beyond the tensions of this moment, as though he might wish himself into scenes of sunny champagne and amuse-bouche. Suggestions for a picnic inspire a whimsical lilt to his already charming tenor. A mention of The Ritz, and his words fall flat as his eyes brim with ebullience. It’s all incredibly fleeting, even to Crowley’s immortal person, and, fearing this conversation will expire with its usual discouraging results, he scrambles to tether the slack that yawns between, flounders in the wake of his friend’s damnable smile. He doesn’t want to face any of it, but he fears their unknown more than anything else. Really, he just doesn’t want Aziraphale to go.

 

“I’ll - I’ll give you a lift,” he tries one last time, because it’s simple and effective and provides a pretense. Of what? Damned if he knows.

 

“Anywhere you want to go.”

 

Everything of Aziraphale’s face falls, but Crowley waits on bated breath seconds anyway.

 

At length, Aziraphale sighs.

 

There is no attempt at the smile, just a shameful incline of his head as he says, “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” and too quickly disappears into the amber orange silhouettes milling through the midnight streets of Soho.

 

Crowley stares a long time after him, and even longer still.

 

Against his shin, where he’s set down the thermos of holy water, an intangible heat sinks through his skin and clings serpentine to the bone, anchoring him to the source of all this agony. In his chest, a similarly loathsome burden has seized its residency and even dares to slink up the back of his throat. The seditious burning behind his eyes, well, that he can amend somewhat, and he flings off his glasses. Distantly, they crash against the passenger side window, but he hears little else beyond the roaring in his ears where his friend’s ever so loyal concern echoes back a thousand times over and over and over itself.

 

They’d fought so bitterly a century ago, at Crowley’s first mention of it. He’d felt himself thoroughly in the right, too, righteous if either of them had been keen on the wordplay, but they weren’t, and, minus their brief encounter in ‘41, it cost over a hundred years to make up for it. And Crowley’s terrified he’s gone and ruined it all again. Yes, Aziraphale brought the holy water, but the corporeal thing is _world’s_ apart from the heart issue, the bloody _implications_ of it all.

 

Despite his best efforts rubbing furiously at his eyes, the threat of unspillable tears still lingers, and Crowley sucks in a painful breath, grinds it out between his teeth now set in the grimace he’s refused to indulge all night, that he refuses ever to show Aziraphale. He can forgive his friend that smile, but to reveal his own self like this, he can’t imagine the opinion the angel would form of him, what it would do to _them_. He’s not meant to be weak like this, to let hinder these petty facsimiles of emotion. They had a row, Aziraphale relented, and now they both have what they want. Yet would if he could, thrust the thermos back into his friend’s hands and tell him, “Forget the lot of this ever happened,” so they might return to thwarting each other in less excruciatingly nuanced ways. At least, they could do to be a little less human about it all, certainly they could agree on that.

 

But he needs it. And how Aziraphale could even think of some other intention, bloody _suicide_... Doesn’t he know how much Crowley needs him, too? To throw it all away like that, it’s almost insulting.

 

Mostly, though, it’s sad, just so, very, achingly _sad_ .  Were he capable, Crowley might already have cried about it, but it’s just the persistent conflagration behind his eyes, instead, a testament to the hellfire that wishes only to scorch and destroy in answering rage. And where’s the solution in that, the relief? Razing to start anew? But start what? Why can’t they just bloody finish this and move on from it? Why, out of everything, all they’ve endured of each other, why is _this_ so hard? Why does Aziraphale have to _make_ it so hard? Furthermore, why is Crowley letting him.

 

“Fuck that,” he mutters, and, wrenching open the glove box, snags another pair of glasses and shoves them on, blinking furiously hard to dispel the last acidic vestiges of sorrow from his vision.

 

“ _Fuck_ that,” he iterates, more determined now, and with a symphonic screech of the tires, peels the Bentley out onto the street and roars into the sluggish traffic, maneuvering hairpin turns, and feverishly interposing himself between shrieking pedestrian and curb to get as far away and as quickly away as possible.

 

It’s one of the few outlets he has. Driving helps him think insofar as he doesn’t have to at all, and he needs very much _not_ to think at the moment. Too fast indeed. Crowley scoffs. Not fast enough in his opinion, and he swings the car on two wheels at a roundabout, laughing as the tire shocks groan for reprieve.

 

But far more meddlesome forces are at play, this evening, and Crowley’s aimless speeding spree chauffeurs him to a section of Soho he’s not visited yet or, well, he probably has in some capacity, but he never deigns to linger in these uptight suburbs, vastly preferring the lascivious nightlife - a lot easier there to pick up unscrupulous individuals who won’t blink twice at robbing a church. Says a lot, that, about Aziraphale’s actions.

 

Crowley resolutely refuses to entertain that train of thought, but his efforts prove futile as, just at the intersection of the street he’s idling down and the next one over, where sits the most smugly quaint little bookshop Crowley’s ever seen, who should bloody appear but Aziraphale, shuffling with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Crowley slams his foot to the gas and the Bentley roars up to the curb beside the angel, startling him terribly. Were his wings present, Crowley would like to think they’d surely have ruffled a fair few feathers loose, but the bewildered expression on his face will have to suffice.

 

In two, fluid motions, Crowley’s out of the car and stalking toward his friend.

 

“You did this, didn’t you.”

 

“I - I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale holds up his hands, as if to defend himself, but Crowley maintains some modicum of restraint, letting the angel stumble back on his own terms without pursuing the distance it creates.

 

“ _This_ ,” Crowley repeats, gesticulating furiously at the car, the bookshop, themselves. “ Miracled me over here, didn’t you.”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know _what_ you mean,” Aziraphale says, his tone tight with the haughtiness he implements for their more childish quarrels. “I _live_ here, Crowley. Or, well, the flat above, but -”

 

“Shut up.”

 

He does, but not without a petulant frown. Still, Crowley is glad for the compliance, it gives him a moment to gather himself, not that he’ll admit to any lack of composure. He hates stooping to congeniality for his friend’s sake. It’s not his style. Not his nature. Instead, he amends his posture and relishes in a sense of satisfaction as Aziraphale shrinks in on himself, always so easily cowed by Crowley’s imposing figure.

 

The angel still maintains his own propriety, peeking up from beneath the white curls of his hair, all aglow in the streetlight and asks, as though desperate. “What in the world is _wrong_?”

 

Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale continues.

 

“You seemed fine when I left. I dare say you should be thrilled,” he does say it, but it lacks conviction.

 

“You got what you wanted, anyway,” he persists, and sounds so woefully tired for it.

 

“And what about _you_ ,” Crowley snipes back, leveling a glower visible even through his glasses. “Did you get what you wanted? Enjoy dipping your toes in the Almighty’s secret stash, mm? Sneaking around for a demon? Making sure I didn’t break a nail getting my own so you could lord it over my head?”

 

“I - I - what? Crowley, what are you -”

 

“Or did you hate every bloody moment of it,” Crowley snarls. “And now you think I’m going to off myself because of - of - oh who even _knows_ . Because you’ve got it in that perfectly holy little head of yours I only bloody care about myself? Is that it? Because you never stopped to consider that, maybe, one of these days, we’re going to have to answer to our people in a _much_ bigger capacity, and I don’t know about _you_ , angel, but I’m not looking forward to that day.”

 

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale says, more insistent than the demon has heard him in quite some time, not since 1862 where this all started spiralling out of control, and Crowley can’t find it in himself to accomplish the rest of his tirade. He doesn’t suppose he much has to either, judging by Aziraphale’s expression.

 

“You - my dear friend,” the angel says, quiet and contemplative and cautious. “ _Where_ is this all coming from?”

 

Crowley deflates, the maelstrom winds of his confusion and fear and fury gutting his sails entirely, and he sinks to the pavement, holds his head in his hands.

 

He feels Aziraphale follow suit, crouching next to him, and a nervous second expires with tenuous expectation, but the angel soldiers on anyway, draping an arm across Crowley’s sunken shoulders.

 

Neither of them speaks for an agonizing eon, merely they sit in the quietude of each other’s frayed company, awash with implacable exhaustion and the subtle sounds of the distant hours.

 

“You don’t really think that,” Aziraphale eventually attempts. “Do you?”

 

Crowley shrugs. He hasn’t the energy for vitriol let alone unpacking everything he just spat out.

 

“I don’t know what I think,” he says.

 

“I - well,” Aziraphale takes a long moment to compose himself, and Crowley dares to lift his head. His friend looks so very helpless.

 

“I can’t deny my concern,” the angel says, shying away from the scrutiny of Crowley’s stare.

 

“You never… explained to me, any of it, and I - I wish it hadn’t culminated like this, that we could have sat down civilly.”

 

“You never really gave me that chance,” Crowley says, not necessarily defensive, but he wants this record set straight. No more nuance. “I wanted to - and I mean, I still don’t… _quite_ know -”

 

“I don’t need to know,” Aziraphale interjects. “I - I mean. Beyond this. Just… so I know that you are alright, that you’re not intending something that will put you in harm’s way.”

 

“Can’t promise you that,” Crowley says, cautiously permitting a smile to his lips. “Never been able to, angel. You know that”

 

“And _you_ know what I mean,” Aziraphale replies, but his eyes reveal his relief.

 

They both share a sigh, and for that, a laugh. They always do seem to come around don’t they…

 

“Certainly you can sympathize,” Aziraphale says, and settles himself into a more comfortable cross legged position. “You’re… my friend, Crowley, a very dear friend.”

 

“Hope you don’t go around singing my praises to them,” Crowley snorts, and jabs a thumb upwards.

 

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale says.

 

A beat.

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

Another sigh, long and aching from Aziraphale.

 

“You really keep me on my toes, dear,” he says, and leans over to rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

 

They’ve sought comfort in each other like this for millennia now, but it’s never any less of a shock to Crowley, never any less impossible to process. Tonight seems especially difficult, and once more a dense weight forms behind his ribs. It is not a wholly unpleasant sensation.

 

He wraps an arm around the angel, around his friend.

 

“I know,” he says, and it really is the only thing he’s been sure about at all this evening. But he’ll take it.

 

“Sort of my job anyway, innit?”

 

“How have they not promoted you yet,” Aziraphale says, his cheeky smile audible, and Crowley jostles his shoulder, prompting the angel to an outright laugh.

 

“Menace,” he accuses, and Crowley takes advantage of his re-situating himself to instead lay his head on the angel’s shoulder.

 

“You know, I never got to thank you. For the books I mean, back in forty-one.”

 

Crowley smiles to himself.

 

“Yes you did.”

 

“Well, not as much as I would have liked.”

 

The angel’s hand wanders as he talks, finds Crowley’s, laces its fingers through his. It’s fairly familiar contact, they’re not unused to such closeness, but it stills Crowley’s breath as something expectant poises itself beside the ache in his chest, hoping.

 

“I suppose this is recompense, then, somewhat,” Aziraphale continues. “Albeit far more dangerous.”

 

“I dropped a bomb on us,” Crowley corrects, and Aziraphale laughs again.

 

“Oh I suppose you did, hm. Still, I appreciate the books. Very much.”

 

“Ah - well… you’re very welcome,” Crowley says, his voice hushed, nervous to spoil this - this - whatever this is.

 

“I’d love to show you them sometime. If you’d like. Well, all my books really - the shop and all. And it would be nice to catch up. I know thirty years is hardly a stretch to us but…” the angel gives an extravagant sigh. “It’s just so terribly _dull_ without you sometimes.”

 

“I’d say you managed alright without me,” Crowley gives Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze. “I mean, you kind of robbed Heaven for me.”

 

Aziraphale hums contemplatively, but there’s a chuckle hidden there, too.

 

“Bugger,” he concedes, “I suppose I did,”

 

“Mm, not very angelic of you, _angel_.”

 

“Don’t you start.”

 

Though it goes unseen, Crowley grins anyway, and rubs his thumb over Aziraphale’s. The responding silence is easier, sweeter to endure. Yes, it’s in his nature to be hostile, to provoke instead of placate, but Crowley vastly prefers these moments to their catty back and forths, seeing who can deliver the more devastating one liner and shut the other up. It’s fine in jest, but this evening has been far from a passing hilarity, and he’s immensely grateful for this reprieve, to just sit with his friend, savor the closeness in the drunken midnight lights, all hazed over. He might even call it romantic.

 

“We should probably get up,” Aziraphale says after some time, but it’s whispered and dreamy and lacks every intention of actually accomplishing such a thing.

 

“Probably,” answers Crowley, content to never move again. Or at least until morning.

 

“I can show you the books.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Wine, too, if you’d like.”

 

He would like that, of course, but he likes _this_ infinitely more.

 

“Crowley I…”

 

His eyes had fallen shut, and he opens them slowly. He looks up, and Aziraphale is looking down, at him, through him, inside where everything has tied itself in knots, but oh, the angel could pluck a single thread and unwravel him all the same if he wanted. And, _oh_ , Crowley wants him to. Wants it more than anything. He looks up, and up, and up, at Aziraphale, and he waits.

 

“I just want you to be okay,” the angel whispers, and the damnable the thing in Crowley’s chest plummets straight into his stomach, and he reaches out, to the angel, to his friend, to Aziraphale, curls his fingers around the soft curve of his jaw, draws that parted mouth to his own, sighs against the warm breath that brushes his lips.

 

“I am.”

 

And the distance between them, the years, the decades, the yearning millennia, comes crumbling down as Crowley, trembling and aching, kisses his angel, succumbs to his soft embrace, his softer mouth, sharing shivering breaths to the small symphony of gasps and whimpers that issue from between their lips.

 

And when they part, it is only to permit a meager millimeter between them, Crowley still caressing Aziraphale’s cheek, ready at a moment’s notice to drag him back down again, so eager to do so, so hopeful for so very much more, too, if the angel will have him. And he’s very certain he will…

 

“And besides,” he whispers, as his friend tries to catch his breath. “I have you, don’t I?”

 

Aziraphale laughs and hums and leans in again, brushes his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth, lingering there for the sweetest eternity.

 

“Always, my dear,” he says. “Always.”


End file.
